Banner day today:
1. Once again, a horrendous breach of parental etiquette, nay, a complete subversion of the parental code occurred when a neighborhood mom showed up AT OUR DOOR, after school, in the pouring rain, WITH HER CHILD IN TOW, and innocently ASKED if Miss O wanted to play with her daughter. What the shit, woman?! That is SO WRONG ON SO MANY LEVELS!!!!! One just DOESN'T DO THAT!!!!
Internally, I was flipping my goddamn lid while murdering her. Actually, I was murdelizing her. Externally, I said, "Sure, why not! Come the fuck in!" (in so many words). But here's my moment of brilliance -- as the mom was scooting her freshly unencumbered ass out the door, I added, "Oh, hey hold on a sec! Let me give you our PHONE NUMBER so you don't have to go out in the rain next time, just to see if we're home." And I jotted the number down in BIG, FATTY SHARPIE and stuffed it into her fucking hand. I added a pert little, "Give us a call when you're ready to pick her up!"
I don't know where I got the danglers to pull that one off, but it sure felt right. I would have revelled in my victory a little longer but her goddamn kid was busy hacking some god-awful lung spew all over our house and I had to start coating Miss O in a protective layer of Purell. That's right -- this chick drops her kid off with fucking Boola-Boola! God DAMN, that lady's got bigger nads than I!
I think I'm going nail one of these to our front door:
These people! Fuckers, one and all!
2. Mr. Z looooves to talk. He has a fundamental need to fill in all available space in the world with conversation. He doesn't do it to annoy me, it's just like breathing for him. I accept it. Shit, I wouldn't have anything to write about if the kid kept his mouth shut. But sometimes, the chatter is so inane, I think even he would be embarrassed by it, if he had to listen to it himself. Today's example:
MR. Z: Dad? Can poops feel anything?
ME: What?! Are you serious?! What are you talking about?!
MR. Z: So, they can't see or hear anything, right?
ME: Are you insane?! Of course not.
MR. Z: [under breath, as he's leaving the room] Glad I'm not a poop.
That exchange can be explained in one of three ways:
1. He doesn't actually think half the time when he speaks, and he just had a bunch of extra words he had to get rid of.
2. He knows I'm hurting for material to write about and he's just floating it out there for me.
3. He's losing his fucking marbles.
Knowing Mr. Z, I'm gonna stick with number one. Can poops feel anything?! Hell, everyone knows that poops die the minute they hit the water. Duh?! Poops can't swim!
And with that nugget of wisdom, I bid you "Good Eve." DAMN, I need some sleep.